


...and Other Various Parts

by missmichellebelle



Series: Drabbles [3]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-17
Updated: 2015-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-21 12:57:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2469002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmichellebelle/pseuds/missmichellebelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a collection of Gallavich drabbles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Ass of the Matter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **word count:** 993 words  
>  **original post date:** 10/17/2014  
>  **rating:** G  
>  **warnings:** none!  <3  
>  **tags:** future fic, fluff
> 
>  **prompt:** none

Mickey is halfway through a page when the lightbulb in the lamp standing next to him starts to flicker. His eyes shift up to it, and he frowns.

“Don’t you dare,” he mutters, voice low, and the light blips a few more times before going out completely and throwing over half their living room into darkness. Including where Mickey had been sitting and reading. He let’s his head fall back against the couch, growling in annoyance, before he tosses his book down onto the cushions and gets up.

“Ian!” He yells as he heads for the hall closet. “Where the fuck do we keep the extra lightbulbs?” Apparently, not in the hall closet.

“What?” Ian calls back from what sounds like their bedroom, and Mickey rolls his eyes as he slams the closet door.

“Extra lightbulbs!”

“Far left kitchen cabinet, top shelf!” Ian answers, and Mickey’s already annoyed scowl deepens. The fuck kind of place is that to keep lightbulbs? What-the-fuck-ever, Mickey’ll move them when he gets them.

He stalks into the kitchen, and looks at the cabinet in question with a put-out expression. For some reason, the person who designed the apartments in this building expected all the tenants to be giraffes or giants or some shit, because the highest shelves are really fucking high. Ian likes to hide things there, like Mickey’s birthday presents or gifts from other people that are too stupid or ugly to deal with seeing on a regular basis. They don’t put anything _useful_ up there because it’s always a pain in the ass to get anything down.

So why the fuck did Ian put the lightbulbs up there?

Mickey glares at the cabinet, huffs out a, “ _Fuck_ ,” and shakes out his shoulders before he heaves himself up onto the counter. He could get by with a chair probably, but the cabinets are deep and Mickey learned the last time he’d tried to fish something off the devil shelf that using the counter was the better (and safer) option.

Ian doesn’t need to use the chair—he’s not _that_ much taller, but apparently a few inches makes a big fucking difference. That and he has long ass arms. But Mickey can get fucking lightbulbs down, he’s not a child.

“Jesus christ, Mick,” Ian hisses as he enters the kitchen, right as Mickey is opening the cabinet.

“Shut the fuck up, I’m fine.” Mickey rolls his eyes. “I’m not the dumb ass who put the lightbulbs in the most inconvenient place on the planet.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ian replies dismissively. “You’re going to break your fucking neck.”

“Like I haven’t done shit more life threatening than standing on a kitchen counter,” Mickey drawls, frowning as he digs around the shelf. He just wants to finish his fucking book, he didn’t know that was going to entail some kind of fucked up scavenger hunt. “‘Sides, pretty sure your scrawny ass will break my fall,” he cracks around a grin, throwing a glance over his shoulder, but Ian looks less than amused.

Mickey blames the fact that he’s in fucking socks, and that their counter is apparently slippery as shit, and that Ian turned their cabinet into the fucking Temple of Doom or something and Mickey is way too concentrated digging for a lightbulb and not exactly paying attention to his footing. Which is why he loses it—for a second, because his fucking self-preservation response is so hard-grained into him that he finds it again almost immediately.

Doesn’t stop Ian’s hands from trying to steady him, and apparently the best way to do that is to press his palms against Mickey’s ass.

“Not saying I mind,” Mickey starts, pushing aside a few more things before he sees the edges of what look like a lightbulb box. “But _really?_ ”

“What?” Ian asks, sounding all fucking innocent and shit.

“Don’t fucking _what_ me,” Mickey says, fingers finally closing over the edge of what he’s after. Fucking finally. He carefully dislodges it from where it’s stuck under some sort of whicker box. “You know, if you want to touch my ass, you don’t have to make excuses.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” and he actually doesn’t, but they’ve been together long enough that Mickey is on to him. Ian can convincing as fuck when he wants to be, which has caused them a lot of fucking grief in the past but Mickey’s sort of figured it out—can tell at least most times, now, when Ian is telling the truth and when he just wants Mickey to believe he is.

“You put lightbulbs on the _things we never want to fucking see again_ shelf instead of the closet, where we keep everything else, and you expect me to believe you didn’t plan this shit?” Mickey glares into the cabinet, remembering how he was going to move the lightbulbs, but he’s spent way too much fucking time on this errand already. He’ll deal with it another day.

Ian’s hands slip to his waist as he hops down from the counter, and Mickey sends him a glare.

“You’re putting too much thought into this,” Ian tells him, but there’s a quirk at the edge of his mouth that’s either his resolve cracking or just his amusement at the situation.

“Like fuck I am,” Mickey says, and pokes at the edge of Ian’s mouth, making him pull back with a startled laugh and leaving the leftover smile on his face. “You have way too much fucking time on your hands, man.” Mickey taps the lightbulb box against Ian’s temple, and then pulls way. He has a fucking book to finish. “Seriously, though, if you want to touch my ass, just fucking touch it. You and your fucking games, I swear to god.”

“I didn’t plan it!” Ian insists around a laugh, and Mickey rolls his eyes. Yeah, just like he doesn’t purposefully store shit in bottom drawers just to watch Ian bend over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Read, Reblog, & Like on Tumblr](http://missmichellebelle.tumblr.com/post/100242017280/the-ass-of-the-matter)


	2. "Are you drunk?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **word count:** 560 words  
>  **original post date:** 1/15/2015  
>  **rating:** PG-13 (for language?)  
>  **warnings:** none!  <3  
>  **tags:** au, first meeting
> 
>  **prompt:** _anonymous prompted:_ 4 and 5, shameless of course :)) 
> 
> using [this tumblr ask box meme](http://missmichellebelle.tumblr.com/post/108237827965/send-me-two-or-more-characters-and-a-number-and)
> 
> 4\. "I'm flirting with you."  
> 5\. "Are you drunk?"

Mickey doesn’t do this. He can think of dozens of reasons of why he doesn’t do this, but the one at the forefront of his mind is the wasted redhead blabbing beside him. He’s an admittedly hot wasted redhead, but that doesn’t exactly erase the fact that he just spilt an entire martini in Mickey’s lap.

Well, it might, if it was later into the night and Mickey was significantly drunker than he currently is.

"Ohmygod, I’m  _so_  sorry,” the trashed ginger says for the billionth time, and he has about fifty cocktail napkins gripped in his hands which he seems pretty intent on touching Mickey with. He twists and dodges the stranger’s persistent, napkin-fluttering attempts at cleaning up the mess before pressing his hand flat against the guy’s chest. Apparently it’s like some kind of switch, because the guy stops freaking the fuck out almost simultaneously.

"Dude, chill the fuck out," Mickey mumbles, his voice far too low considering the volume of the music in the club, but the guy doesn’t ask him to speak out. "Maybe next time don’t go sloshing your fucking drink everywhere."

”I wanted to talk to you,” he says, and Mickey almost repays the favor by knocking his beer all over the guy. Mickey stares at him, unable to come to terms with the way he can just say something like that without blinking a fucking eye. “Not that I spilled my drink on you to talk to you on purpose or anything. I’m not crazy. Because that would be kind of crazy, and you’re hot in that broody sort of way, you know, and not in that  _I dig crazy_ kind of way—”

Does this guy ever stop fucking talking?

"—but I don’t just spill drinks on guys to get their attention, and I kind of thought maybe you’d kick my ass? But then I also kind of thought maybe you’d let me try and clean you up and then I would kind of be touching all over your dick and—"

Okay, he needs to shut up now.

"Are you  _drunk?_ " Mickey asks incredulously, and apparently him talking seems to make the ginger shut up. He has to be drunk. Like, ridiculously drunk. Drunker than Mickey had even first anticipated. Because people don’t say shit like that out loud.

People don’t say shit like that out loud to  _Mickey_ , especially.

"What? No." For a second, the guy looks perpetually lost, like those sad puppies in those commercials that ask for money. "I’m Ian." Mickey’s eyebrows pinch together. "Wait, no, I mean. I am. That’s my name. But I’m not—I’m flirting with you." His hand lands sudden and heavy on Mickey’s shoulder. "Right?"

"You looking for confirmation there, buddy?" The corner of Mickey’s mouth quirks up in a grin, and this Ian character’s skin is hot and burns through the material of Mickey’s shirt.

"…I might be drunk," he says. "A little." He blinks. "Can I buy you a drink?"

"That sounded like flirting," Mickey finds himself assuring Ian, who grins, and seriously, how old is this kid?

"Is it working?"

Mickey looks away, shrugs the shoulder that Ian’s hand is now curling around, and tips the dregs of his beer into his mouth. He wipes his hand across his mouth, glances back at Ian, and says, “Buy me that drink and we’ll see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Read, Reblog, & Like on Tumblr](http://missmichellebelle.tumblr.com/post/108240137630/4-and-5-shameless-of-course)


	3. "I did a pregnancy test."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **word count:** 360 words  
>  **original post date:** 1/15/2015  
>  **rating:** PG-13 (for language?)  
>  **warnings:** er vomiting?  
>  **tags:** canon-centric, fluff, hurt/comfort, humor
> 
>  **prompt:** _anonymous prompted:_ IAN X MICKEY #16 LMAO  
>  _anonymous prompted:_ 16, shameless lol
> 
> using [this tumblr ask box meme](http://missmichellebelle.tumblr.com/post/108237827965/send-me-two-or-more-characters-and-a-number-and)
> 
> 16\. "I did a pregnancy test."

"You all right?" Ian calls through the bathroom door, hand closed around the knob as he twists it back and forth. The lock is a piece of shit, and he knows if he keeps fussing with it, it’ll give. Eventually. But whenever it happens, it’ll be a hell of a lot sooner than Mickey voluntarily opening the door.

The only answer Ian gets is the toilet flushing, and he frowns and wiggles the door knob a little more forcefully.

Mickey’s not good with the stuff he considers humiliating, like having a cold that leaves him bed-ridden or holding hands in public. Or vomiting. Ian winces as he hears another round of retching, and then finally forces the door open.

"—the fuck out," is all Mickey manages to say before he’s throwing up again, and Ian feels himself gag a little bit before he forces the sensation away. He kneels behind Mickey and rubs his back as he dry heaves, and is rewarded with Mickey flipping him off and groaning miserably.

When it lets up, Ian hands Mickey a handful of toilet paper to wipe his mouth with, and doesn’t comment on the tears running down his cheeks.

"Think it was the fish tacos?" Ian muses after a few moments, watching Mickey where he has his forehead pressed against the cool porcelain of the toilet bowl.

"I didn’t tell ya?" Mickey’s voice is weak and wobbly, and Ian immediately starts to rub his back again. "It’s a fucking baby. And guess what? I did a pregnancy test. It’s yours!" Mickey shoots an unamused glare over his shoulder. "Of course it’s the fucking fish tacos."

Ian snorts.

"Just asking." He continues to run his hand over the ridges in Mickey’s spine. "Did you mean  _paternity_  test?” Ian asks after a few seconds. “A pregnancy test wouldn’t—”

"I really, really don’t give a fuck, now please go the fuck away and let me blow chunks in peace."

Ian presses a kiss to Mickey’s sweat-damp hair, and grins.

"What kind of example would I be setting for our unborn child if I did that?"

"I fucking hate you. And fish tacos. Fuck fish tacos."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Read, Reblog, & Like on Tumblr](http://missmichellebelle.tumblr.com/post/108242443555/ian-x-mickey-16-lmao)


	4. The Child Whisperer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **word count:** 1275 words  
>  **original post date:** 4/1/2015  
>  **rating:** PG-13 (for language?)  
>  **warnings:** none!  <3  
>  **tags:** future fic, parenting, fluff
> 
>  **prompt:** I asked my tumblr followers to challenge me to rewrite some of my fics with a different ship—this is based on the idea from my Klaine fic [Time Out](http://archiveofourown.org/works/886336).
> 
> [challenge me?](http://missmichellebelle.tumblr.com/ask)

“Thank fucking god you’re home,” Mickey hisses as Ian walks through the door, and he’s immediately hustled into the living room, one arm awkwardly half-out of his jacket as he stumbles over his own feet.

“What’s wrong?” Ian asks, head whipping around. “Did something happen?” There’s no sign of immediate danger, and it doesn’t _look_ like anything bad happened. No fires, no break-ins, no bullet wounds.

“It’s Yev—” Mickey starts, and Ian goes on high alert, every muscle going tense.

“Is he okay? Is he hurt? What happened?” Ian throws his jacket down on the couch, fighting the urge to run to Yev if only because he has _no_ idea where he is.

“He’s fine,” Mickey insists, putting his hands on Ian’s shoulders. “Well, I mean, fuck. I don’t know. He’s been acting weird ever since Svet dropped him off, and you know the kid, he won’t fucking talk to me half the time.” Mickey runs a hand through his hair, looking a little defeated, and Ian calms down. A bit. Yev isn’t hurt, or in danger, and his _fight or fucking fight_ adrenaline calms down for the moment. “I just figured, you’re the fucking kid whisperer, he’d probably talk to you.”

Ian’s face softens, and he catches Mickey’s flailing hand and squeezes it.

“Or we talk to him together.”

Mickey and Yev’s relationship isn’t bad, it’s just been a little more strained since he’s gotten older. He spends most of his time with Svetlana, his time with Mickey pressed into weekends and holidays and the occasional dinner where they’re all together. Ian can see where Yev is coming from. He hardly sees his dad, isn’t old enough to really understand the complexities of the situation, and probably doesn’t understand why things changed.

After all, there was a time when all of them were together.

“He in his room?” Ian asks, and Mickey just gives a sharp nod. “Okay.” He drags Mickey more than walks with him, and is surprised to see Yev’s door shut completely. Even at night, it’s usually cracked, just in case he needs one of them in the middle of the night. Ian knocks softly before he pushes on the door, calling out a questioning, “Yev?”

He’s sitting in the corner of the room, his back to them, which is odd in and of itself, but stranger still because he’s sitting on the _floor_. It actually kind of freaks Ian out, like Yevgeny is going to turn around and be one of those possessed children straight out of a horror flick. But when he gets close enough to put his hand on Yev’s shoulder, the little boy that turns to face him is the little boy he’s used to seeing two or three times a month.

“Hey, buddy. I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever,” Ian says in that voice he saves especially for Yev, and Liam, and really any small child he cares for. “Did you get your hair cut?” Ian grins and musses up Yev’s hair, and he immediately goes to pat it down once Ian is done. He looks at Ian with those blue Milkovich eyes, and then looks over Ian’s shoulder to where Mickey is standing a few feet back. He nods, which isn’t weird—Yev is a quiet kid—but he does seem a little… Low.

“Why’re you sitting in the corner? Did your dad put you in a time out?” Mickey makes a disagreeable sound behind him, but Ian ignores it, focusing on Yev, who shakes his head _no_ this time. “Did your mom?” Again, Yev shakes his head. “Did Mr. Freckles?” Mr. Freckles being Yev’s imaginary friend, of course, but again, it’s a no. “Hmmm… Are you playing a game?” Not that, either. Ian hums and sits back on his ankles, and he can hear Mickey shifting his weight worriedly behind him. Glancing back, Ian gives a significant raise of his eyebrows and jerk of his head, and Mickey sighs and drags himself over, falling to this knees with a _thud_ that makes Yev jump.

“Yevgeny…” Ian starts gently, and he goes still at the use of his full name. “What’s going on, huh? Bad day at school?” Ian rubs his hand over Yev’s back. Yev mumbles something, and Ian goes, “What was that?”

“He pushed someone,” Mickey translates, eyebrows jumping up his forehead, and both Ian and Yev look at him in surprise.

“Yeah?” Ian looks at Yev, who hunches his shoulders. “And why was that?”

“Probably because the kid was being a dick,” Mickey surmises under his breath, and Ian shoots him a look that is half amused and half _take this seriously for fuck’s sake_. Neither of them is expecting Yev to hesitate and then nod his head. “That’s my boy,” Mickey mutters, and Ian can’t help but smirk at that.

“He…” Yev starts without prompting, and then pauses for a long moment, almost like he’s deliberating something. He reminds Ian so much of Liam in that fashion, and wonders if making the two boys spend so much time together just had that effect on Yev. “He was making fun of how I don’t gots real parents,” Yev continues in a whisper. “And I says I do and pushed him real hard.” Yev stops, blinks, and then nods.

Ian’s mouth thins into a contemplative line, and he manages a glance at Mickey, who looks murderous and touched in a way Ian hadn’t thought possible before meeting him. Now he knows it as Mickey’s universal tell of giving a fuck.

“You do,” Mickey finally says, placing his hand on Yev’s head. “Best fucking family on the planet, right here.”

Yev cracks a small smile.

“I’m not in trouble?” Yev asks, voice hitched and hopeful, and Ian and Mickey exchange confused glances.

“Fuck no,” Mickey says vehemently, while Ian thinks a few moments before speaking.

“Did you get in trouble at school?” Ian asks, but Yev shakes his head, and Ian shrugs. “Then no, you’re not in trouble.” They aren’t exactly trying to raise Yev in any of their footsteps, but the kid should know how to defend himself. Hell, at Yev’s age, Carl had already been beating other kids with sticks, and as far as Ian is concerned, they don’t need to worry about Yev until he starts kicking the shit out of others for fun.

Not that Svetlana always—

“Wait, does your mom know about this?” Ian asks suddenly, eyes widening, and Yev looks sheepish again.

“Mommy gets mad when I hit. Makes me sit in the corner.”

And suddenly it makes sense. There’s no one in his life that Yev loves more than Svetlana, as much as he might go through phases of preferring to spend time with Mickey or Ian (or both). But from what Ian can remember from them all living together, Svetlana was a devoted mother. Almost to the point where it was a little terrifying (for everyone but _Yev_ , that is).

“Well, I think you’ve been punished enough, right Mick?” Ian glances at Mickey with raised eyebrows, and Mickey’s lips tip up in a smile and he’s suddenly picking Yev up.

“Yep,” Mickey says, throwing the kid over his shoulder. “And if your mom asks, you were totally already punished, right?”

“Yeah!” Yev laughs, flailing his legs, and Mickey huffs out a grunt as one collides with his gut. Yev is facing Ian, and holds out a small hand, and Ian reaches forward to take it. “Can I has a snack now?”

“Of course,” Ian says at the same time that Mickey goes, “Only if you stop kicking me, jesus fucking christ.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [read, reblog, & like on tumblr](http://missmichellebelle.tumblr.com/post/115268096165/time-out-from-your-purple-daisies-verse-but-with)


	5. Fireworks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wordlessly, Ian lifts up the comforter wrapped around his shoulders, and looks at Mickey pointedly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **anonymous prompted:** Ian and Mickey. #18
> 
> from [this prompt meme on tumblr](http://missmichellebelle.tumblr.com/post/127726673115/send-me-a-ship-and-one-of-these-and-ill-write-a): "18. things you said when you were scared"
> 
> fits into my [the fox and his hound](http://archiveofourown.org/series/146982) verse.
> 
> 725 words.

Ian hates New Years Eve. And the Fourth of July. And basically any other holiday that calls for people to celebrate using fireworks.

He huddles in the corner of the couch, blanket pulled tight around his shoulders and ears flat against his head—not that it helps. Fireworks are so loud that no amount of trying to block out the sound helps him, not when he can feel the echoes all the way down to his bones.

It’s one of those nights where he wills his humanity to be more dominant, to reason with his animal instincts that it’s  _just_  noise, and  _just_  light, and he’s not in any danger. It works, to a degree, because while the fox still paces restlessly within him, he’s sitting on the couch rather than running as far as he possibly can.

Over the TV, he can hear the distant  _boom boom boom_  of the fireworks display his entire family is attending, and huddles further into his nest of blankets. He closes his eyes, and focuses on breathing, his body so tense it’s actually painful.

He smells Mickey before he sees him, which isn’t odd. He’d gone looking for him earlier, but Ian’s gotten better at knowing when Mickey needs to be alone. It doesn’t stop him every time, of course, but Ian knows how to pick his battles, and today was not a day for pushing tensions further than they already were.

Ian doesn’t crack open his eye until Mickey’s weight dips the couch beside him. His ears are laid back, as well, but it looks more aggressive on Mickey, especially when his teeth are barred the way they are. It’s almost like he’s challenging the fireworks to a fight, and Ian actually manages to crack a smile after the next  _boom boom boom_  when Mickey downright growls.

(After his own spike of fear settles, that is).

“What?” Mickey bites, when he realizes Ian is looking at him, and Ian wishes that he would calm down a bit. Just enough that he could be there for Mickey, who looks like he’s wound up so tightly that he’ll spring to the moon at his next opportunity.

“You-you good?” Ian asks, voice tight, and Mickey just glares at him in response, crossing his arms and looking away.

“They’re just a bunch of fucking lights and noise, it’s—” Another round, and they both go still, their human brains trying to wrestle their animal instincts into submission. “It’s nothing to be fucking  _scared_  of,” Mickey sneers, and he sounds more angry at himself than at the fireworks.

Ian supposes it would be a little silly to be mad at  _fireworks_. Their anger would be better placed on the humans responsible for the displays, despite the fact that people know what fireworks do to hybrids, to animals.  _Lesser humans_ , Ian thinks, sadly.

And then he thinks of Mickey—of this last Fourth of July, and the New Years Eve a year ago, and all the other fireworks displays before and inbetween. He looks at Mickey, curled up so tight without actually drawing himself into a ball, and Ian wonders how he did it, locked up and all alone. Ian wonders if he could have gotten through it by himself, all those years ago, when his peers wondered at the bright, shining lights, and Ian was in tears, instead.

Wordlessly, Ian lifts up the comforter wrapped around his shoulders, and looks at Mickey pointedly.

Mickey just stares back, eyebrows pinched, frown heavy on his mouth, but Ian’s stare doesn’t waver, even when the fireworks go again. That’s what finally propels Mickey closer, curling under the blanket with him in a way that screams reluctance despite the fact that Ian can feel Mickey’s body sag and relax against him.

Ian doesn’t say a word, breathing in the heady scent of Mickey that he’s come to love so much, to the point where he’s pressing his nose against the base of Mickey’s ear. The calm that washes over him isn’t enough to offset the panic caused by the fireworks, but… It’s something.

They sit like that, the TV playing some movie that neither of them even pretend to pay attention to, their bodies curling together tighter and tighter with each resounding  _boom boom boom_  as the celebration around them rages on.

_And a happy new year…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [read, reblog, & like on tumblr](http://missmichellebelle.tumblr.com/post/127731166355/ian-and-mickey-18)


	6. Chicks Love Romantic Shit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Mandy said chicks like shit like this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **[marvelmawrter](http://marvelmawrter.tumblr.com/) prompted:** 55 gallavich
> 
> from [this fic meme on tumblr](http://missmichellebelle.tumblr.com/post/129742960695/send-me-a-pairing-and-a-number-and-ill-write-you): 55. “Our first date is a picnic on a beach under the stars? Have you swallowed a romance novel? Do I need to call a doctor?”
> 
> 701 words.

Ian stares at the spread before him with disbelief obviously laced through his entire body on top of being openly displayed on his face. Mickey fidgets beside him, just outside his periphery, and Ian’s mouth flaps open and closed, unable to find words.

“Just fucking forget it,” Mickey finally huffs out, voice tense and defensive, and then he starts to stalk away. He’s almost out of reach when Ian has the mind to grab him by the wrist, and then immediately lets go at the scathing look Mickey sends his way.

“N-no, wait, I’m just.” Ian’s fingers clench around the open air, as if he might be able to grasp the words out of it. “I’m confused.” He looks at the blanket strewn over the sand, and then back at Mickey. “When you forced me into your car and drove me two hours up the coast, I thought you were going to fucking kill me, not…” Ian looks at the blanket again. “Hijack a picnic?” Ian literally has no fucking idea what’s happening.

“What?” Mickey asks in confusion. “That’s not—” he trails off, huffs, sticks his hands in his pockets and kicks at the sand. He looks like he might punch Ian in the face at any second, but he also looks… Uncomfortable? Maybe even embarrassed—

Wait.

“Is…” Ian can’t help the grin that crawls across his face. “Is this a  _date_?”

“Fuck off, Gallagher,” Mickey drawls, glancing out towards the inky black of the water, and all Ian can do is let his smile continue to grow.

“I guess I just never pictured this.” Ian walks closer to the blanket. There’s no picnic basket, but rather a few brown paper bags strewn across what looks more like a sleeping bag on closer inspection than anything close to red-and-white checkers.

It’s not that Ian’s never pictured  _this_  in particular (although he hasn’t), but that he’d never really imagined him and Mickey on a date. Ever. Period.

“Our first date is a picnic on the beach under the stars?” Ian asks himself more than Mickey, voice laced with awe. It is… The least Mickey Milkovich thing he’s ever heard of, actually. Ian turns to glance at him skeptically. “Have you swallowed a romance novel?” He tips his head to the side, voice lilting in a teasing way. “Do I need to call a doctor?”

“You know what, fuck you. Have fun walking home,” Mickey spits, and Ian laughs, less afraid this time when he grabs him.

“Shut the fuck up, I like it,” Ian assures him, rubbing his thumb over the soft skin that covers Mickey’s pulse. “But you know you didn’t have to do this shit, right? Like, we could have sat on a stoop together in the middle of the afternoon, and I would’ve been happy.” Ian’s voice waivers a bit, but he shakes it off. If Mickey can take him to a fucking picnic on the beach, Ian can afford to say that much. Besides, something about the darkness and the sound of the waves makes him feel a little braver.

“Mandy said chicks like shit like this,” Mickey mumbles, scratching at his nose, and Ian barks out a laugh, tugging sharply on Mickey’s shirt until they’re pressed chest-to-chest. He watches Mickey’s eyes shoot around fearfully, but the beach is deserted. Not surprising, considering Ian’s pretty sure that if a cop finds them they’ll both be arrested for trespassing.

“Do I look like a chick to you?” Ian purrs, rubbing his thumb over Mickey’s collarbone and drawing out a wolfish grin.

“Pretty sure we wouldn’t be here if you did.”

And Ian smiles, because even if he is about to drink beer and eat chips while listening to waves and watching for shooting stars, that’s not Mickey. When Mickey is rarely romantic, it is accidental, and subtle, and not romantic at all, but it still makes Ian’s cheeks ache with his smile and his heart flutter too rapidly. It is popping off the lid on Ian’s beer with his teeth, or offering him a drag of a cigarette, or sort of vaguely saying that he likes spending time with Ian.

He’ll take that over some shitty picnic any day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [read, reblog, & like on tumblr](http://missmichellebelle.tumblr.com/post/129898654400/55-gallavich)

**Author's Note:**

> [Prompt Me?](http://unicorncolfer.tumblr.com)


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